


Born Warrior

by ncfan



Series: The Golden Age of Konoha: The Founders [7]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Death, Gen, Sibling Relationship, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born Warrior

The smoke lingering in the air is tinted heavily with blood, and Izuna’s head still spins from the chaos that’s soaked this patch of forest with red. Ghostly figures pass through the smoke and beyond like apparitions, and Izuna’s hands drip with blood not his own.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Or, rather, he wasn’t supposed to be in a battle. Madara is ten and fights among the men, and he and Izuna do everything together—eat, sleep, train, spar, go down to the nearest river or pond to draw water for the cooking. But Izuna isn’t a grown-up like Madara yet. He can’t perform the Grand Fireball, so Mama tells him to wait when the others go to battle. Today though, there were ambushed while moving to a new campsite. There was no helping it.

His eyes hurt.

Izuna’s eyes, they burn as though sprayed down with hot coals from the cooking fire. If he wasn’t afraid of being looked down on, if he wasn’t so tired, he might whimper or cry. He can barely keep from closing them from the pain as he stumbles about the ferns, looking for Madara or Mama or Grandfather, or even stupid cousin Hikaku, just to see someone he actually knows and who knows him.

( _A wet, sticky, squelching gurgle bubbles up with the blood-flecked foam frosting the man’s mouth. His eyes roll back in his head, and blood oozes sluggishly, no longer spurting, down the kunai, onto Izuna’s pale, trembling hands._

 _It was a lucky shot. Izuna was lucky he wasn’t killed himself. War and death in war is glorious, so the elders tell him, Sota in his dry rasp and Madoka in her rattle. It doesn’t seem glorious to Izuna, who watches the man quake one last time before he’s still, and wants to be sick._ )

He finds Madara standing near a cart where grim-faced men and women toss the dead, wrapped in the makeshift shrouds of their cloaks and cowls, into the back. Madara turns to look at him. His eyes are red.

Izuna blinks, not sure if his tired eyes guide him true or not.

Madara’s eyes are red, with a small black dash in each. Red as the ochre a kunoichi smears on her lips before disappearing into a town for the night, searching out information. Black as coal. Unnaturally vivid.

“Are you hurt?”

The words barely register for Izuna, let alone Madara’s tense, worried tone as he drops to his knees in front of his brother. He can only blink blankly, and murmur, “Brother… Your eyes…”

Madara stares at him as though he doesn’t understand, before a shadow passes over his face, and he nods slowly. “The Sharingan, Izuna.” When he gets no response, Madara elaborates. “Our gift.”

“Is that… why your eyes are red?”

“So are yours, Izuna.”

Oh.

Oh. That must be why Izuna’s eyes are hurting. Another wave of weariness sweeps over him and he wants badly to sleep.

Behind them, a man loads another corpse into the back of the cart. This one is smaller, and the black cloak has green trim around the edges. This is important, Izuna thinks, but he’s not entirely sure why. He can’t quite remember why it’s supposed to be important.

Madara follows his gaze, and his face pales slightly—he, at least, understands the significance of this. He shifts his weight so Izuna can’t see the cart, and grabs his brother’s hands. “Listen, Izuna. Whatever happens, we can not forgive our enemies. Whether they’re Senju or Hagoromo, Hyuuga or Aburame, Nara, Akimichi, or anyone else, we can not forgive them. We can never forgive. We can only conquer, and try to live with it.”

Izuna nods, but he doesn’t really understand. His eyes hurt and his hands drip with blood, blood now smeared on Madara’s palms as well. He hears nothing beyond “Come on, lads,” and knows nothing beyond a man he doesn’t know lifting him up into his arms.

He’ll understand tomorrow, and wish he didn’t.


End file.
